Mourning
by LackLuster99
Summary: Takes place before and after the Kira case. I thought I'd explore a little background on L and his possible love life. This is also my own personal mourning for him. He was my absolute favorite.


**2000**

England had always been his heart.

He was obnoxiously exhausted. To be going back to England after a 4 month, non-stop, case in Hong Kong was a relief. Every moment that extended from his sixteenth birthday, the day he assumed the name and fate of L, had stretched out his life into two different realities. On one hand, Lawliet could not imagine himself without realizing his goal. To spread justice, to exercise his mind, to change the world…these things filled his thoughts in his solemn, sleeping hours, few as they were. He loved his life as L. He reveled in his ability to see, to hear, to know, and to find without question. The world needed him. He need L just as much as they did.

But, there was another, deeper animal within the mind of Lawliet, investigator, child, orphan, hope. There was a part of him that was already tired to the bone, recklessly tired. He had just enjoyed his 21st birthday. The world considered him young, but he felt centuries old.

The lulls between cases could also bifurcate. He needed the time to rest, to remember his past life at Wammy House, to see the children he had called brothers and sisters. To see her.

Yet, the weeks of unbearable idleness felt taxing to his brain. If he devoured sweets while working, he injected sugar like a junkie while mopping around the orphanage, waiting for a new case to come to light.

But, on this first day of coming home, L could only be happy to see the faces of those he had missed. They came running to him, giggling furiously, screaming uninhibitedly, their muddy shoes trailing onto the briskly cleaned floors.

"LAWLIET!" "L", "WHAT DID YOU BRING US?" "ARE YOU STAYING FOREVER THIS TIME?" "WHAT'S CHINA LIKE?"

The bombardment of questions always startled him. He had been, after all, anti-socially predisposed in his own broken existence. Yet, the overlarge eyes of the children, and even some of the adults, always demanded he laugh and begin fabricating half truths to answer them.

The real truth? He never brought home anything. It never occurred for him to. The moment he landed in a particular area, his mind became immersed with facts, evidence, photographs, and testimonies. He did not think to explore the cities in which he stayed. The truth was, he knew that in a month or two, a new case would come for him. He would leave the following morning without saying goodbye to the children. The truth was: he had no idea what China was like.

"Welcome home." And her voice always resonated above the roar of the toddlers. The pair of hazel eyes that always trapped him in his own awkward silences and stances, the pair of arms that held him as a broken and bruised adolescent….it was her…the girl who he had grown up with and probably loved if he would allow himself.

"I'm home, Lyre."

Once evening brought its misty silences to their frosted windows, L felt like he could relax. His room was always left as he remembered leaving it, though he knew a few rascal arms and legs had managed to sneak in and search through his few belongings. Lyre would come with some dinner. He would never touch the meat and vegetables. He would devour the overlarge piece of cake.

She was twenty now. In all reality, he was surprised she was still here. As they grew up, she had always adamantly stated her intentions to move to America and become an important woman, whatever that may be. However, L's departure into the world of crime investigation seemed to change Lyre's intentions. L was a smart man, he knew she stayed in order to maintain some kind of connection to him. He knew because it was what he also wanted. If she were to leave here, he knew their time together would dry out and die. They would become strangers. Though, he wanted her to have her career…he didn't want to lose her.

He could never take her with him. She was too much a distraction.

"I'm debating on whether or not it's good to sleep." He mumbled, fingering a sprinkled biscuit on the tray. She had already begun to undress.

"Your eyes look particularly dark. I bet you haven't slept in a week." Her voice seemed heavy, something seemed off. L could sense it. Her shoulders looked too straight, too tight.

"9 days, 4 hours, and 32 minutes since I last had a nap." He stood, his back arched in its usual slope. He could never be straight, he must always be bending to see what was in front of his face.

He shuffled to the bed. She was completely unclothed now. Yet, they were beyond blushing.

"You're upset with me."

"No. I just have something to tell you." Her eyes looked tense. It was very much unlike her.

He sat down beside her, afraid to touch her. All these years and he was still afraid to touch her first.

"I'm leaving the orphanage in March. I've been offered a job in Paris."

It was hard to tell if the emotion that ran through his body was relief, happiness, or doleful despair. He assumed one day she would leave him. He had left her first, after all.

"Have you told Watari?"

"Yes. I asked him not to tell you." Her voice was like lead.

"The children…Mello will be particularly upset."

"I don't plan on telling them until closer to time. After Christmas at least. I still have six months before I start."

L began to feel his face flush. He usually never got upset about things. He felt like his blood was heating up, his gut was tightening.

"What will you be doing there?"

"I've gotten a job at the art institute. I'm going to be an instructor for gifted children."

"Your paintings were always so fresh and lovely." He mumbled, he began to bite his thumb.

"Now you're upset." Her hand caught his fingers, squeezed, then lowered his digits down. She continued to hold onto him.

"You know why. When will I see you?"

"Liam, you know I can't wait here forever. The moment you left with Watari, back all those years ago, you doomed us to this. I was a child when I first gave myself to you, and you were a child too. I just can't let my life…" she trailed off. She felt obnoxious.

"You have every reason to go. It is better this way. I want you to go. My Lyre deserves happiness. L deserves to know you are happy. But, poor, poor Mello."

He tried to smile. She squeezed his hand.

"Let's enjoy our last here. Let's enjoy pretending we are fifteen again, hiding from Watari and the others. Remember our first time?" she was peeling off his pants like there was something secret hidden underneath him. Yet she knew him, she had charted and mapped his body. She relived the hills, valleys, and oceans of him when he was miles away.

"I always felt that I would never live long. Now I see, that my life is reaching its end…for me to accept days, months, years, without seeing you." Even he was surprised at the emotion in his voice. He suddenly felt overwhelmed to be missing her. He suddenly hated all men in France.

She removed his shorts and then his shirt. She let her lips linger on his skin, softly, like a ghost, trailing kisses up and down his body.

"Reject the name of L. Come to France with me." She whispered. "Cast aside this fate. There are others who can take the name."

He finally turned to face her. His tired eyes melting into genuine regret.

"You know I cannot do that."

She smiled. "Of course not."

They were kissing now, heatedly, desperately. L had never felt confident, in these moments of passion. His gangly limbs always stuck out at odd angles. Sometimes, he felt like her body would break in his arms, he was squeezing her to hard, thrusting into her too fast. Yet, she always begged him for more. Always encouraged him. He knew she would be the only woman he would ever love, ever touch like this, ever know. He knew that from this moment on, he would lead a life of solitude. His face would fade and the name of L would be all that would remain and be known. If he could not have her, he could not be whole.

She pushed him back onto the bed, teasing his ear and neck with her glorious mouth. Her soft brown hair tickled his skin, he felt like moaning, but the pleasure suppress all sound, all movement, he just froze and let her paint wonders on his body. Her mouth knew his chest, his shoulders, his thighs perfectly.

And oh, she had become quite skilled at torturing that sensitive, revealing, other part of his body. As she took him into her mouth, he let his long, concave palms wrap themselves in her hair, smoothing it down. He cocked his head to look down at her while she worked. Everything about her was soothing, everything about her was pleasurable.

He felt himself close and began to tug at her. "Come back up here." He whispered.

She had that succulent smirk, that Cheshire grin that always floored him as she crawled up his body. It was always so perfect: Lyre on top of him.

He leisurely ran his fingers over her arms, shoulders, and chest, paying special attention to her breasts. They always felt strange in his hands. L could not figure them out. He was 97 percent sure he liked them, and 3 percent sure he was afraid of them. But, each time he put pressure on the two raised mounds of flesh, Lyre would begin to hum. He loved it when she made music. It was sweeter than any strawberry shortcake.

"Sing for me." He murmured, flipping her over so that he could begin his own dance. His tongue made quick work of her nipples, and she began to hum the way he always remembered.

Minutes passed. An hour. The foreplay over and L was thrusting inside of her, her legs on either side of his head. She had this look on her face, as if, pleasure weren't merely his body bonding with her, but as if pleasure was otherworldly. He found it hard to concentrate, he wanted to explode. He wanted God to wake up inside him. He wanted to thrust into her forever.

Her hands came to clasp onto his bottom. Her nails felt bluntly sharp, he could not tell whether to not he could feel them. He brought his finger down to her mound and began to rub another strange part of her anatomy. He wasn't sure what it was he was doing, but she always made such a fuss. To see her so uninhibited always undid him. It had at fifteen, and it did now.

He had forgotten how heavy he felt after making love to her. He had forgotten how soft the down sheets and pillows of his bed were. He had forgot how pleasant it was to have her fingers twist and stroke his long hair while his eye lids began to droop. Only with her could he relax. Only with her could he let himself fade into uninterrupted slumber.

And how she would watch him sleep. How she would drink in his presence until she could no longer keep her own eyes open. It was everything she had wanted, from her childhood till now: to have him vulnerable and open to her in his nakedness. It wasn't about merely loving him. It was about knowing him.

And she would carry L with her to Paris. She would always have him with her, wherever she went.

And it was always amusing, he snored so loudly.

**2012**

She had, of course, been informed the moment it had happened. The pain had been so sharp and intense, that she had fallen down on her hands and knees and wailed for an hour. They had had to carry her out of the restaurant and back to her small flat across from the school.

Immediately she had returned to the orphanage. Immediately she raised objections at Near and Mello's possible succession. Of course, she was overruled.

Now, 8 years later, she had finally made it to Japan to visit Watari and L's grave.

She had not expected Near to greet her there. He had been elusive and scattered since the ending of the Kira investigation and death of Yagami Raito. But, somehow he had been informed of her journey, and had hoped to escort her to the grave site.

"He's been waiting patiently for you."

"And I him."

And she had not expected to cry again, after so many years of telling herself he was dead. He had always said that he would die young. She had never listened. Even after she had left for Paris, she had hoped he would eventually give up his title and return to her. They could have lived many good years together in Paris. He would have loved the French sweets.

She had his mother's broach in her pocket. It was one of his only possessions left to him after the death of his family. He had left with her that last time. He had wanted her to keep the most meaningful part of him.

As she bent down into the soft earth, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck tingle. It was only her imagination, but she fancied that somewhere, he was watching her. He knew her heart and accepted her even in death.

She both loved and hated him, for tearing her heart in two.

She dug a shallow hole, enough to cover the broach, to plant it with its rightful owner.

"You existed. You lived. And I loved you."

She said it with conviction and grace. Near bowed his head. This moment resonated in his mind. Was this the only way things could have turned out? Could things have ever been different?

"I hope that, wherever he is, he is at least enjoying the food. I'm sure there are plenty of strawberry shortcakes available to him. Plenty…plenty of chocolate."

She was crying again. She was wailing.


End file.
